waiting well

There’s a stack of wallpaper rolls sitting on the third shelf in the library. Always visible, always waiting. I ordered them months ago—sampled and decided, measured twice, imagined the install. But the walls in my office are still bare.

The truth is, I’ve been looking for the right person. Someone who’s done this before. Someone who knows the patience and precision it takes to line a pattern, smooth out bubbles, make it last. That kind of craft is a little rare. And worth waiting for.

Still, there are days I walk past that room and feel the tug of unfinished things. A quiet guilt that something is not yet done. Like I’m somehow behind on my own timeline.

But here’s the thing: not everything in a home—or in a life—is meant to be finished quickly. Sometimes the pause is part of the process. Sometimes the waiting is a kind of care.

Living with something unfinished is a practice in trust. Trust that the right moment is coming. That the work will get done. That the room, like the person, is still becoming.

So for now, the wallpaper stays rolled, the walls stay bare, and I keep writing at my desk with the morning light coming in just the way it is. The beauty isn't in the perfection—it’s in the patience. In the choice to wait for the thing that will be done well, not just fast.

Somewhere between progress and peace is a shelf of wallpaper, quietly reminding me:
You’re not behind.
You’re just in it.
That counts too.

—L